by DAVID B. COE
He was not a fool, nor was he blind, though his fool son seemed to think he was. Javan was just thankful that Aindreas hadn’t seen Tavis and Brienne sneaking off with that container of Sanbiri red. Their betrothal notwithstanding, the duke would have tried to take a sword to Tavis’s neck had he known that they were alone together, with a full flask of wine no less. Fortunately, Aindreas had consumed a great deal of wine himself this night. He was too busy fulminating against the Aneirans and their allies in Braedor to notice how loud his voice had grown or how his continued pounding on the table was upsetting the plates and goblets. He certainly wasn’t about to notice that his daughter had vanished with Javan’s son.
As far as Javan could tell, neither the duchess nor Aindreas’s Qirsi had seen them leave either. A small miracle. He could only guess how Ioanna would have felt about it. Had Shonah been here, she would have been furious.
For his part, Javan couldn’t really blame his son. Brienne was a beautiful girl, and that dress … The duke shook his head. He and Shonah were not old by any means, but there were times when he wished they both were that young again.
At least Tavis hadn’t done or said anything to offend Brienne. Given his recent behavior—his drunken appearance at the dinner in Curgh last turn, his attack on Xaver, his late-night drinking, which he tried so desperately to hide—that had been Javan’s greatest fear. Considering what might have happened this evening, Tavis and Brienne running off together into the night was really not so bad. Just so long as Tavis didn’t do anything stupid, like get the poor girl pregnant, everything would be fine.
The duke closed his eyes at the thought and took a long pull of wine. If that happened, Aindreas would kill Tavis, and probably Javan as well. He wondered briefly if Shonah had ever spoken to the boy of such things. Not likely. She probably saw that as a father’s responsibility, and Javan couldn’t really argue with her. His father had spoken to him about it, on a hunting expedition the two of them had taken when Javan was ten. He already knew most of what his father told him, having heard it all from guards, servants, and some of the older boys in the court, and their ride seemed to last twenty years. Even now, the memory of it made Javan squirm. Perhaps that was why he had avoided such a discussion with his own son. By now he had to assume that Tavis knew all that he needed to know. And more, no doubt.
“You will do tha’, won’ you, Javan?” Aindreas said, the words running together like paints on a wet canvas.
Javan stared at him blankly. The big man’s face was even more flushed than normal and his pale eyes were red-rimmed and half closed.
“I’m sorry, Aindreas. My mind must have wandered. The wine, you know. What were you saying?”
“I said, I asked Aylyn t’ sen’ some of the King’s Guard to the Tarbin an’ he hasn’ done a thin’’bout it. But you will, won’ you? I have jus’ so many men, Javan. I can’ protect the castle and the city and the river and continue to pay all of them. I’ll be out of gold in no time.” He leaned forward, his breath stinking of wine. “I don’ need a lo’ of men. Jus’ a thousan’ or so. Jus’ enough to watch the river. You can do tha’, right?”
He knew that this was what it would be like to be king. Aylyn himself had warned him, during his most recent visit to Audun’s Castle a few turns back.
“Someone is always asking for something,” the old king said at the time. “And more often than not, someone else is asking you to do the opposite. For all its glory, being king grows more burdensome with each year.”
Javan just hadn’t expected that it would start so soon.
“I’m not even on the throne yet, Aindreas,” he said, sounding, he knew, like a parent putting off a demanding child. “I can’t make any promises without knowing more about how the king’s men are assigned currently.”
Kentigern frowned. “If you need more men, you ca’ recruit them. If you don’ like the way they’re assigned, you ca’ reassign them.”
“Forgive me, my Lord Kentigern, but I couldn’t help overhearing your request.”
Javan turned toward the voice and saw that Fotir and Xaver had moved closer, taking the seats that had been occupied by Tavis and Brienne. Fotir, who had spoken, was smiling now, though Javan could see that the smile was forced.
“What of it?” Aindreas demanded, eyeing the Qirsi with suspicion.
“Reasonable as your request is, my lord, I needn’t explain to a man of your insight that my Lord Duke could not assign men to the Tarbin so soon after taking the throne. Such a move by a new king could easily be misinterpreted by the Aneirans as a prelude to attack.”
Javan gave his first minister a grateful smile before facing Aindreas again.
“He’s right, of course,” the duke said. “Even if I were already king, there would be little I could do right now. I’ll be happy to consider your request, Aindreas, but I think we should wait for a more appropriate time.”
Kentigern shook his head and let out a sharp, loud laugh. “You’re jus’ like him, aren’ you? Not even king yet, an’ already acting like th’ dithering old man you’re t’ replace. Hiding behind th’ lies of your Qirsi, keeping your men t’ yourself while th’ rest of us guard your borders an’ fight your battles.” He drained his goblet and threw it on the floor. “I should ha’ known better than t’ trust a Curgh.”
“Aindreas! That’s enough!”
Ioanna was glaring at her husband, her cheeks as red as if she had been slapped. All other conversations in the hall had ceased and everyone who remained, even those at the lesser tables, was staring at the two dukes.
Kentigern, who had winced at the sound of his wife’s voice, now turned toward the duchess.
“Look at yourself,” she said. She glanced at the other tables and exhaled through her teeth. “Look at yourself,” she repeated, her voice lower, but her tone no less severe. “Drunk as a soldier at the Revel, and insulting our guest. Insulting your future king!”
“We’re jus’ talking, my dear. Tha’s all. Javan knows tha’.”
“My deepest apologies, my Lord Duke,” Ioanna said, looking past Aindreas to Javan. “At times my husband forgets that he can’t drink the way he once did. The mind is always the first thing to age, but the last to mature.”
Javan smiled at the adage, which was as old as the castle in which they sat.
“It’s all right, my lady. As Aindreas said, we were just talking. I took no offense.”
A lie, but a gracious one.
“You’re too kind, my lord,” she said, casting another withering look at her husband.
Kentigern did not seem to notice. His attention was elsewhere, although belatedly so.
“Where’s Brienne?” He sat up straighter and shot a look at Javan. “Where did tha’ boy of yours take her?”
Graciousness had its place, but enough was enough. He leveled a finger at Aindreas and opened his mouth, though he still wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Mercifully, Fotir answered before he could speak.
“They left a short while ago, my lord, saying something about a walk through the ward and gardens.”
Javan didn’t believe a word of it. No one snuck off with a flask of wine simply to take a walk. But once more he was thankful for the minister’s quick mind.
“A walk, eh?” Aindreas said, sounding doubtful as well.
“Let it be, Aindreas,” Ioanna said. “We brought them together to build the foundation for a marriage. Let them have their romance.”
“Romance? They’re children!”
The duchess smiled. “She’s six turns older than I was the first time we met. And you remember the walk we took, don’t you?”
Aindreas’s face turned the color of the wine. “If you’re tryin’ t’ put my mind a’ ease, you’re doin’ a damned poor job of it.”
“When have I ever tried to ease your mind?” she asked, glancing mischievously at Javan.
The others at the table laughed, and after a moment Aindreas joined in. It clearly took an effort, however.
&
nbsp; “You’re lucky you’ve only th’ one boy, Javan,” he said, after the laughter had subsided. “A father can’ help but worry about his girls.”
“Don’t you worry about Ennis?” Ioanna asked, raising an eyebrow.
Aindreas shook his head. “It’s not th’ same. My girls …” He stopped, shaking his head again. “Well, let me put i’ this way: how much trouble can a boy get in? Right, Javan?”
Javan smiled weakly and made himself nod. Yet, even as he did, he found his gaze wandering to Xaver MarCullet. The sleeve of the boy’s shirt hid the dark, angry scar that ran across his arm, but Javan could see it in his mind, an answer to Aindreas’s question.
How much trouble, indeed.
Had Brienne not been leading the way, he would surely have gotten lost already. Perhaps it was all the wine he had drunk at dinner, but Tavis was finding it difficult to follow the twists and turns of Kentigern Castle’s passageways. He felt as though they had been walking for an eternity and still none of it looked familiar.
She was holding his hand, her skin smooth and warm, and now he halted, forcing her to stop as well. Her cheeks were flushed and she was just slightly out of breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, feeling a bit breathless himself.
She looked down for an instant, but then met his gaze again. “To your chamber.”
He felt his heart begin to race. His hands were shaking. “But this isn’t the way I came before dinner.”
“No, it’s not,” she said, a conspiring smile on her lips. “That route would take us past too many of Father’s guards.”
Tavis grinned. “So are you just seeing to it that I find my way back to my bed, or did you have more in mind?”
Her color deepened, but still her eyes held his. They stood like that for a moment, staring at each other, utterly still. Then, as if performing a dance they had rehearsed a thousand times before, they each took a step forward, put their arms around each other, and kissed.
Her breath tasted of wine and her hair smelled of honey and wild flowers. Her body seemed to melt against his. Tavis could feel his heart hammering like a siege engine against his chest. His one free hand was pressed against her back, covered by silken threads of golden hair. He still held the wine in his other hand, and he almost threw it to the floor now so that he could unfasten the small, gold buttons that ran down the front of her dress.
Instead, he pulled away. “My quarters?” he whispered breathlessly, barely able to make himself heard.
“Yes,” she said, kissing him again. An instant later, however, she pulled back from him. “But know this, my lord,” she said, breathless as well. “Though I am yours, promised by my father, and bound now by my own heart, you will not bed me tonight. I’ll share kisses with you.” She hesitated, smiling shyly. “And perhaps somewhat more. But as to the rest …” She shook her head. “That will wait until the night of our wedding.”
Perhaps he should have been angry. Perhaps in some small way he was. But he also understood. She was not a serving girl in a tavern or some such commoner. She was a noblewoman; she was to be his queen. He longed to lie with her. No doubt he would dream of it this night. If he wished to make this match work, though—and he did, more than anything he had ever wanted before—he knew now that he would have to accede to her wishes.
“Of course, my lady,” he said. “If that’s your desire, it’s mine as well.”
Brienne grinned. “Really?”
He had to laugh. “Well, maybe not,” he admitted. “But I’ll abide by your wishes. You have my word, your honor will be safe with me.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, favoring him with a dazzling smile.
They kissed again, and Tavis wondered if he had the strength to keep the promise he had just made.
“How much further to my quarters?” he asked, whispering the words into her hair.
“Not far. But first, some wine.”
It was his turn to grin. “You make it difficult for a man, my lady.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, taking the wine from his hand and drinking deeply.
She handed it back to him and he drank as well. Then she took his hand again and led him on through the corridors.
They hadn’t far to go, but still they stopped several times more to kiss and drink and laugh, all the while urging each other to stay quiet so that they wouldn’t be heard by Kentigern’s guards. When finally they reached his chamber, they pushed open the door and stumbled forward onto the bed, nearly dropping the wine. There were no candles lit, but light from the moons spilled across the stone floor.
“The door,” she said, lying on her back, her eyes closed. “Lock the door.”
Tavis pushed himself up and made his way unsteadily back to the door. His head was spinning and abruptly he felt quite sleepy. He looked down at the flask, which was still half full. Maybe he had drunk more at dinner than he thought. Or maybe the day’s journey and the night’s festivities had finally caught up with him.
He locked the door and returned to the bed, putting the flask on the floor before lying down next to Brienne. Her eyes were still closed and her breathing had slowed.
“No fair falling asleep,” he said, kissing her.
She returned the kiss, her eyes fluttering open for just an instant. After a minute or two, Tavis moved his lips to the side of her neck, and then her throat, and then the top of her bodice. At the same time he began to unbutton her dress. Or at least he tried. He had to fumble with the buttons for several moments before he even succeeded in getting one of them undone. The buttons were small, and his fingers did not seem to be functioning as well as they had before his first glass of wine.
Brienne let out a soft sigh as he continued to kiss her, and she shifted slightly, making it easier for him to reach her dress. She certainly offered no objection to what his hands were doing, and so he didn’t stop.
After what seemed an eternity, he finally managed to unfasten her dress all the way to her waist. He spread the dress open and gently kissed one of her breasts. Once more her eyes fluttered open for just an instant, but otherwise she offered no response. It took him a moment to realize that she had fallen asleep.
“Brienne,” he whispered.
She didn’t stir.
“Brienne.” Louder this time.
Still nothing.
He kissed her on the lips, but she didn’t kiss him back. He lifted his head and looked at her. Her golden hair flowing like a river over the pillow, her skin illuminated by Panya and Ilias, her breasts, full and soft, laid bare for him. He touched one of them, then the other. She was his, if he wanted her. Asleep, drunk, half naked.
He closed his eyes and lay down next to her. He would never have done such a thing. Besides, he was as tired as she, perhaps more so. He had spent much of the day riding. He needed to sleep. Just for a while. Just until dawn. Then he’d wake her and walk her back to her chamber. He had sworn that he would guard her honor, which not only meant controlling his own passion, but also keeping her reputation from harm. It was a promise he intended to keep. She was to be his queen; she deserved no less.
Later, after he slept.
Chapter Ten
On most nights, Fotir had no trouble getting the duke of Curgh back to his quarters at a reasonable hour. The duke had never been one to lose himself in conversation; social occasions were more a burden for him than a pleasure, just as they were for Fotir. Moreover, because Javan was a duke, few ever tried to prolong their discussions with him once he had made it clear that he wished to be done.
In this case, however, the evening had dragged on far beyond what Fotir felt was necessary. They had ridden much of the day, and had been journeying for the better part of the waxing. They needed rest. Judging from the frown that had been creeping onto the duke’s face for the past hour or more it seemed clear to the Qirsi minister that Javan felt the same way.
But just as Curgh’s duke was used to having people leave
him alone when he grew tired of their company, the duke of Kentigern was accustomed to having people listen to him prattle on for as long as he wished. Add to that the fact that Aindreas was drunk, and there was little Fotir could do to end the evening. Ever since Javan and Aindreas’s awkward exchange regarding the posting of the King’s Guard on the Tarbin, the duchess of Kentigern and Shurik, Aindreas’s first minister, had been trying to convince the duke to return to his quarters and sleep. Instead, Kentigern had called for more wine and taken their conversation in a new direction. He could barely speak anymore; Fotir doubted that Javan even knew what they were discussing. But that didn’t seem to matter.
“Aindreas, we must let our guest sleep,” the duchess said, trying once more.
“If you’re tired, wife, go t’ bed. I’ll be along.” He looked at Javan again. “’S jus’ as well tha’ Shonah didn’ come with you, Javan. Two of them would be impossible.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, you oaf!” The hall was empty now, save for a few servants and those sitting at the main table, and apparently Ioanna didn’t care anymore if they heard her chastise her husband. “Javan and his company have come a long way. They need to sleep.”
“Nonsense! Javan’s fine! Jus’ ask him.”
“Actually, my friend,” the duke said, taking this opportunity to stand and stretch his legs, “I could use some rest. It’s been a long day. And we’ll have plenty of time to speak further during the next few days.”
Aindreas shook his head and laughed. “You’re gettin’ soft, Javan. Old and soft.”
Javan clenched his jaw, his face shading toward crimson.
“Easy, my lord,” Fotir said under his breath. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He hasn’t for half the night.”
Javan exhaled slowly and then nodded.
Two of Aindreas’s servants helped the large duke to his feet and began to lead him off the dais and out of the hall.
